


Aged Like Fine Wine

by coaldustcanary



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Crack, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-11-07 09:52:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11056497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coaldustcanary/pseuds/coaldustcanary
Summary: The Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall take a moment amidst chaos to wonder what the hell happened to Cullen Rutherford, and how much the Inquisitor owes them.





	Aged Like Fine Wine

**Author's Note:**

> This is tongue-in-cheek crack fic inspired by a tumblr post observing that Cullen's hotness steadily increases throughout the game series. Published to AO3 on 5/31/17 but with the publication date backdated to original posting on tumblr.

“Look, all I’m saying is that hard times have been uncannily good to that man,” Hawke said, pausing in her ostentatious nail trimming to gesture vaguely with her dagger toward the far side of Skyhold keep, directly opposite their perch on a high walkway. Across the courtyard, the Inquisition’s Commander cuddled quite publicly with the obviously besotted Inquisitor. They were adorable. It was sickening. Hawke made a retching noise.

“It’s absurd,” she continued. “Are you sure there isn’t a still a demon involved somehow? I mean, look what he’s managed to do with his hair. That’s not  _natural_.”

“It’s not now, and never was,” muttered the Warden from beneath her gray hood, folding her arms across her chest. In austere splintmail, her dark hair cropped short and an unmarked shield strapped to her back, she looked no different than many of the other pilgrims who had come to Skyhold as word spread of the Inquisition, except that she had come at the side of the Champion of Kirkwall, and was not staying to enlist. “He’s apparently been gifted with the grace and good sense to stop doing…whatever it was he was doing with his hair before. I do wonder what sort of product he uses to such good effect. Alistair’s cowlicks are barely manageable sometimes…” Warden-Commander Cousland’s words trailed off, and she shook her head. Hawke snorted, caught between exasperation and not-entirely-aesthetic admiration for the ex-Templar idiot on the other side of the keep, who was currently kissing the Inquisitor very thoroughly against the battlements.

Warden Cousland and Hawke sighed appreciatively and exchanged knowing, slightly wistful glances.

“Maker’s balls. I nearly killed him when he came to take Bethany to the Circle in Kirkwall, you know. I mean, he probably  _deserved_  it, but I suppose depriving the world of that gorgeous ass would have been a tragedy. Andraste’s silky knickers, how did he survive darkspawn, demons, a qunari invasion, a variety of encounters with furious apostates and abominations, and years as Knight-Captain in the festering wound that is Kirkwall  _generally_  and under Meredith Fucking Stannard  _specifically_  and come out looking like  _that_? It’s not fucking fair. I’m only a few years older than he is and I’m going gray and none of my scars look nearly as good as that fucking…decoration on his lip,” Hawke said, scowling. Cousland slanted her gaze sideways at the rogue and snorted.

“What scars?” the Warden scoffed. “When have you been fighting without the services of your own personal spirit healer any time in the past decade or so? Wynne was very good at what she was about, and powerful besides, but I’ve never seen a healer as skilled, whose work is as seamless, as Anders. But, anyway, the answer is  _us_.”

“Us? Why, whatever do you mean, Your Majesty?” Hawke asked, batting her eyelashes coyly at the other woman.

“Don’t start that crap, Marian,” Cousland said. “I mean, the reason Cullen Rutherford is alive to look that good - and has matured enough that he likes to chase that Circle mage around the bedroom rather than Smite her silly - is clearly the result of our heroism, skill at arms, and ability to put up with his bullshit while saving his life. Repeatedly, in your case, from what I’ve read. Your friend Varric was pretty particular about that,” the Warden said, her somber face splitting in a rare grin.

“Too true. Not even counting the times I admirably refrained from stabbing him because he was being an asshole, or the times I kept Anders from setting him on fire or Justice from tearing his head off, I saved his life at  _least_  three times,” Hawke observed. “And you saved the big idiot once…no, twice. You saved us all the one time, that certainly still counts. Maker’s ass, I… _we_  deserve some kind of medal for preserving Cullen Rutherford to age like fine wine ready to be tapped by next woman in Thedas who has been singled out by the Maker and shit luck to save the world. I hope the Inquisitor is appropriately grateful.” They glanced together across to the battlements, where the Commander and Inquisitor had just disappeared into the former’s office.  
  
“They apparently fuck in a room without a roof, Hawke. Word at the Herald’s Rest is that everyone in Skyhold has heard just how grateful the Inquisitor can be,” the Warden said dryly. Hawke barked a laugh.

“Well, she’s a lucky bitch, then. You, however, are awfully vulgar for a living legend, you know that, right? You’re disappointing all my preconceived notions. It’s delightful. Anders told me some stories, actually…” Hawke let the statement trail off delicately, lifting an eyebrow in silent question. When the other woman remained silent, Hawke continued, her grin turning wicked.  
  
“Someone at Amaranthine apparently would tell pretty wild tales about what you and Alistair got up to during the Blight. You’re so composed, Warden-Commander, I’d never have guessed you were a screamer…” The Hero of Ferelden blushed startlingly scarlet and murmured heartfelt and vicious invective about a certain degenerate dwarf who would not likely survive their next meeting before talking right over Hawke, who looked delighted at the cursing and entirely too prepared to continue in this vein.

“Yes, well,  _some_  of us don’t have to rely on stories, Champion,” the Warden interjected. “Honestly, you’d think a few years as fugitives would have taught you two how to be quiet. I haven’t slept properly in a fortnight with all of your carrying on.”

“Oh, shush, it was a compliment,” Hawke said soothingly. “Besides, Anders and I unanimously agree that the King of Ferelden is a fine specimen of manliness. And after meeting you, Andraste’s tits, woman, you make a girl feel some things. Does it count as national pride when you feel fluttery inside looking at the royal consort? I’ve never been prouder to be Fereldan. I understand now how Anders went all flushed and fretful just talking about how damnably attractive the Warden-Commander and King of Ferelden looked kissing each other goodbye, with an awful lot of tongue, just after casually saving his life from a murderously angry pack of Templars. You can tell him I said so.” Still blushing, the Warden quirked her lips in a tiny smile at Hawke’s teasing.

“There’s nothing casual about Conscription,” she said quietly, though the lines around her eyes went momentarily soft with memory. Hawke coughed to cover her discomfort with the suddenly intimate moment, and nudged a shoulder into the woman by her side.

“Anders is probably frantic by now. You should get back, and I should go find Varric,” Hawke said, suddenly serious. The Warden shrugged her shield higher on her shoulder and nodded, briefly clasping Hawke’s hand tightly by way of farewell.

“Remember, you didn’t see me. Whatever they think, I can’t help with this. You and Stroud know this problem intimately. Anders and I can work on the other,” the Warden said grimly. Hawke nodded silently. She didn’t like it, but no better alternatives had presented themselves. They were committed to this plan, now, and her heart rested in the other Warden’s capable hands.

Cousland turned to go, but Hawke’s voice stopped her, briefly.

“Keep him safe for me,” the Champion of Kirkwall said, not particularly liking the wavering note of question in her voice. The Hero of Ferelden’s expression was gentle, and to her credit she was certain.

“I promise.“


End file.
